


Dreaming Aloud

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Series: Living In Wakanda [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom Natasha Romanov, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Room (Marvel), Sub Bucky Barnes, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10415166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: Anxiety and grief have their place,Dr. Yelba told him when he broke down in one session.There is no shame in tears, in memories, in feeling. We must find a place to keep them, before they get overwhelming.Bucky found his peace with Natasha, in ways he never thought he would





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [FY buckynat 2017 mini bang.](http://fuckyeahbuckynatasha.tumblr.com/minibang) The lovely art is by Jes!
> 
> This is also vaguely a sequel to [Walking After You,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7866826/chapters/17965099) but you don't necessarily have to read that first. It's Civil War compliant, Peggy was found, Team Cap is in hiding in Wakanda, Bucky was thawed, and Helen Cho was in Wakanda to help with that process which is why she couldn't help Rhodey recover from his injuries. And now, onward to the buckynat! :D

Natasha remembered her training in the Red Room, the fights to cement her place as the Black Widow. Most of the memories were fuzzy, altered and changed and _corrected_ by whatever means they had at their disposal. Medications, hypnosis, strange medical procedures that had poor Helen Cho choking at the frank lack of medical ethics. Still, she remembered them all, in that hazy way that resembled dreams. They didn't change, not the way that dreams did, so she knew that most of them were real. At least a little bit. Wanda offered to try spells to remove the haziness, but Natasha didn't want anyone else mucking about in her head and mixing things up worse than they already were. Her memories were suspect, but they were _hers._ They were there, shaping the woman she had become.

She was her own woman, no one else pulling her strings, and that was the important thing. She might not have known whose lies she had told, but she had chosen to tell them.

It might have seemed a little silly, but having her own space in the villa was comforting. She didn't need her own apartment or safe house in Wakanda, and wouldn't be able to truly hide in this country anyway. There were common areas within the villa, but she liked having her own bedroom and sitting room. That was her place to retreat to if she didn't feel like putting on a mask for others to interact with. Maybe she could try dealing without the masks more often, but it was an old habit that was hard to let go of. She could reach out and support them as they struggled with living in a new country, but she still had to hold some secrets inside. Without them, she felt empty and strange.

The children saw glimpses of her without a mask, and they enjoyed that. Being Aunt Nat was actually rather nice. She wasn't on the defensive, she could experience the moment and simply be whoever she was at that time.

Immediately, Bucky's words at Steve and Peggy's wedding came to mind. _I have to be vigilant. I can't be the Winter Soldier.... I have those memories, and I can't stop them from coming._

She had understood, and oh, how she had ached for him then. It was all too familiar a feeling, the dizzying and terrifying expanse of _choice_ and _freedom._ Natasha had been on her own long enough to be able to deal with that kind of terror, but Bucky had been under Hydra's thumb for far too long. It was all too new for him.

 _You have find a way to overcome them,_ she had told him, then held out a rose. She had requested him to place it in her hair, and he had followed her direction well. He had worked it into the elaborate braids and curls in her hair, making sure thorns wouldn't snag on the style, hands gentle.

_All the best roses have thorns. I'm not afraid of something sharp._

Natasha grinned at her reflection in the mirror. She had cut the front of her hair into bangs and put twin braids on either side of her head to hold back the rest of it. It made her look so very young and innocent, as if she was once again the girl that had been lost to time and the harsh mercies of the Red Room.

Bucky had a chance to start over. And once again, so did she.  


***

The bouquet of red, red roses on the coffee table in the living room was startling and vivid, and for a moment Bucky was caught dead in his tracks. He could remember the spray of fresh blood on snow, the shivers he automatically repressed, the knowledge that he had to move efficiently despite the snow. It didn't matter if someone knew the Winter Soldier had been there, as long as the job was done. If anything, knowing the Winter Soldier had been the assassin would strike even more fear into Hydra's enemies.

Hearing his own breath catch jerked him out of the fragment of memory. He didn't gasp back then. He wasn't even a _he_ back then. Oh, the handlers might have said _you_ or _he_ or _him,_ but he was a machine to them. He had to be functional, and that was all. Anything not necessary to the mission was wiped clean.

Fragments had remained, though. Hidden deep. Memories of Steve. Vague ones of Natasha, her frightened eyes and the vivid red of her hair. Blood on snow or sand.

Blinking away the memory, Bucky took a step closer to the coffee table. Now he could see that they were the same kind of red rose that Natasha had given him at Steve and Peggy's wedding, handing one to him as if he was an ordinary man. His hands curled into fists as he felt a sharp stab of want in his chest. He wanted to be ordinary. He wanted to be normal, to go about his day without the shards of memories and dreams that haunted him, dogging every step and whispering that he didn't deserve to still be alive.

He forced himself to reach out and pick out a rose from the bouquet, lifting it up. Now he could remember the way Natasha's hair had looked at the wedding, a concoction of braids and curls and pins, and how soft the strands had been against his fingers. He remembered the curve of her bare neck, the way her shoulders sloped, the drape of fabric over her body. The curl in her lips as she smiled at him, unafraid.

His hand curled into a fist again, this time sinking down on the thorns. He hadn't realized that the memory of Natasha brought tension to it, but the sharp pain in his palm grounded him, sank him into the present. She wasn't here, he wasn't in the past. He was in the present, he was _here,_ in his body, in this moment, in Wakanda. He wasn't a soldier, wasn't a weapon, wasn't the tool that someone else could use.

If he had to, he would protect Natasha from his worst moments. She should have been able to see the danger for herself, but perhaps she overestimated her abilities. He had shot her, after all. Twice. She carried the scars to prove it.

 _But you didn't kill her._ Shaken by the thought, Bucky dropped the rose and looked at the blood welling up in his pierced palm. _You never miss, you can't afford to miss, and you didn't kill her even when it would have been more expedient to. You went after her on that bridge, not Steve, and you chased her down because she meant something. You didn't think of her as the Black Widow then, just as someone you had to catch._

Something in him had remembered, even when he hadn't been aware of it.

He would have to protect her if she wasn't willing to protect herself. He didn't believe that she could control him or save anyone else if he snapped. Dr. Yelba thought he was making excellent progress, that he wasn't always responding to the demons in his mind, but Bucky didn't trust it. Didn't _want_ to trust it. He couldn't let down his guard, because that would lead to mistakes, and any mistakes he made would get others killed.

The version of the super soldier serum in his bloodstream meant that the bleeding on his palm was slight and already stopping. He wouldn't even scar, not from a rose's thorns. This moment would be like nothing more than a dream, a fragment he would question later.

 _Counter the destructive impulses with something more constructive,_ Dr. Yelba had told him, voice gentle and firm. She didn't accept anything less than his best efforts, much like his old Hydra handlers hadn't, but she didn't punish if his efforts failed. Instead, she nodded and looked thoughtful for a moment. _Let's try to attack it from a different angle,_ she would say instead, a firm tilt to her jaw. It was always a plural, as if she was an ally in the trenches with him. Perhaps she was; he had to explain his memories and live through them, and she was there sitting and listening. Maybe she was experiencing it vicariously, and it would be terrible if he was causing her nightmares in turn.

She never accepted guilt if he mentioned that in their sessions. _I am a professional,_ she replied calmly. _I am aware of tools to aid in processing memories, in the self care I will need. I am not in danger here. It is time you were aware that_ you _are not in danger, too._ Her gaze was piercing, but it didn't make his hackles rise. It was more like the gaze his mother used to give him in Brooklyn if he tried to lie about getting into fights on Steve's behalf. She knew all about his bullshit, never let him get by on it.

 _Anxiety and grief have their place,_ Dr. Yelba told him when he broke down in one session. _There is no shame in tears, in memories, in feeling. We must find a place to keep them, before they get overwhelming._

She didn't have any words of wisdom for _where_ to keep the damn things, but at least it was comforting to know he wasn't actually broken. He felt like it most days, as if his brain wasn't working right, as if something was missing in him. He didn't want Hydra to be right, that he was nothing more than a _thing_ now, a machine of flesh and bone and metal.

Bucky carefully put the rose back into the bouquet and took a step back. It was artfully done, a bright burst of color in the room. Not Steve's work; Steve tended to be a bit more subtle about the ways he decorated the villa. He wanted it to be soothing and homey, but at the same time everything was still functional. Peggy teased him about the ability to use furniture as weapons or hiding them everywhere, but Natasha had clearly approved. "You never know when you'll need some kind of protection," she had said with a careless shrug.

They were too eerily similar, comparable ghosts in their pasts. It should have been frightening, but he actually found it comforting in a way, too. He wasn't the source of her ghosts, not all of them, anyway. While he would have to keep her from doing something stupid where he was concerned, it wasn't all his fault. For once, it wasn't his fault.

Speaking of which...

He didn't know how long he had been staring at the bouquet, fighting the urge to rip the petals to shreds to eliminate the reminder of red, red blood. At other times, there was the urge to sweep the vase off the table. Or to pick them all up, feeling the thorns prick his skin, making him feel something that he knew was real and present and _now_ and not Hydra. He wanted to be something other than this mess of a man, but he didn't know how to do it.

Natasha was opening the door, another bouquet of vivid red roses in hand. She smiled at him warmly, as if he wasn't a deadly assassin that could gut her in an instant, and proceeded to the kitchen. She took another vase from an upper cabinet, stretching on her tip toes to reach, and filled it with water. It didn't seem to bother her that he was staring without saying a word, that his hand was still outstretched, palm up, paralyzed with indecision.

"I think having the flowers in here is nice," she said finally, taking the wrapping paper off of the stems. No eye contact, just carefully unwinding the paper and string, then scooping the roses into the vase. "A bright splash of color. A little life in here."

Her smile was bright, almost innocent, almost painful to look at. He managed not to wince in the face of it, and nodded. "Yeah. Nice."

"Everything new," she said, bringing the vase to the side table in the living room. Each step had a spring to it, a careless sway in her hips. It dragged his eyes to the way her jeans fit her so well, the way her sandals revealed the painted toes. She wore a bright blue tank top and a jaunty scarf around her throat, and the Wakandan sun had tanned her.

"Not everything can be made new again," Bucky replied, letting his hand finally drop to his side.

"I know," she said, understanding in her gaze. "But it's a new start. Becoming something other than what we thought we could be."

It felt as though there was another meaning there, some undercurrent he was missing. Or wanting to miss, because it was too much to think, too much to feel, too much to _be._

"You like playing with fire," he said finally, voice heavy and ponderous.

"Maybe," she acknowledged, a wry twist to her lips. "Fear keeps me sharp."

_Anxiety and grief have their place. We must find a place to keep them._

Huh. Maybe she was on to something after all.

***

Natasha tracked Bucky as they trained in the dora milaje hall. It was an honor she was highly aware of, and was certain she would never abuse. Bucky still seemed edgy and skittery at the thought of hand to hand combat, but he was getting used to it. His instincts in a fight were still honed and sharp, and being smacked around by his metal arm _hurt_ and reminded her that he was still more than capable of serious damage. Several members of the dora milaje milled around; Natasha recognized Jokotade and wondered if she missed Peggy. Steve and Peggy were on a honeymoon in the outskirts of Wakanda, where the tribes eschewed all forms of modern technology and communication.

Her musing meant she missed a step and Bucky was able to drop her to the mat. It cleared her head, and Natasha flipped back to her feet and lunged forward in a punch to his gut. Bucky hadn't expected her to keep coming back, so she caught the solar plexus and staggered back a few steps. She laughed, a sharp and feral sound, and he responded in kind. Natasha didn't think that he even realized it.

She swept his feet out from under him and straddled his chest, arm pulled back to level a sharp jab at his jaw. When she didn't immediately hit him, he frowned at her. "Why won't you take the shot?" he asked, confused.

"Do I need to?"

"Why wouldn't you? I didn't tap out yet."

"No, you don't take the easy way out, do you?"

Bucky pushed her off of him, and she landed with catlike grace. Her back arched, and she knew that the catsuit clung to every curve. It was deliberate, and she watched his facial expressions very closely. Oh yes, he was looking. He noticed. He couldn't not notice. The way he licked his lips seemed to indicate that there was want there, and she could work with that.

Some part of her wondered if she really wanted this. Him. The challenge and the push and pull of this, a relationship that could possibly strangle her and drag her down. That was the part of her that tried to be callous and cold, assess every exit strategy and weigh the consequences of every decision to determine the favorable outcomes. It was a small part of her, but still there. The majority of her was eager for a challenge, and genuinely curious about him. Not for information's sake, but for _his._ She wanted to know more about him, what kind of things he liked, what he wanted to do with the future he was given.

"What game are you playing, Natasha?" he asked, sounding almost wary.

That was unacceptable, so she launched herself at him to continue the sparring. It left him off balance, and she was thrilled to know that she could unsettle the Winter Soldier. He was deadly, but also a living man. She could affect him, she could make him feel something. And she wanted him to feel _her,_ to be drawn to her as much as she was drawn to him.

"Shall we play a game?" she asked, flipping her body in such a way that he had to swing his metal arm out to maintain his balance. Hooking her leg around it, she let herself fall to the floor. It upset his balance, and he staggered again.

 _"Natasha!"_ he growled, a Russian cant to the syllables. Ah, she loved the sound of his voice like that, the way his tongue curled around her name. "Enough of the games!"

"This is how we operate, isn't it?" she asked in Russian, voice low. "Trying to find every advantage we can? Do you feel the urge to do it?"

He bared his teeth at her. "I won't let you turn me back into the Soldier," he snarled in Russian.

"I don't intend for that," she told him honestly. "But you're suppressing the instincts they gave you. You can use them to fight me. Take me down. You _can,_ but you're _not."_

"I haven't been holding back," he admitted, hands clenching into fists. "You just move better than I do."

Startled, Natasha scrambled out from under his towering figure. "They always told us that the Black Widow program wasn't as good as the Winter Soldier. That we would never measure up."

"They lied," he told her heavily in English. "Congratulations."

Getting to her feet, Natasha contemplated that. "I think it's your arm. This one's lighter, and you're compensating for it, but you still move the way you used to with the heavier one."

"You're going to help me practice to be a better fighter?" he asked in disbelief. "You don't want me capable of hurting someone else."

"No," she agreed. "I want you capable of _protecting_ someone else."

Bucky blinked at her. "What?"

"When Steve and Peggy return, what do you think they'll plan to do?"

"Knowing that punk? Something stupid."

"Exactly," Natasha nodded. "I need you in fighting shape. He'll want you by his side, you know, and he sometimes has no sense of self preservation."

"Sometimes?" Bucky scoffed incredulously. "Never had one."

Natasha laughed, genuinely amused. "Tell me about it over lunch, will you? Firsthand accounts of that time."

He gave her a calculated look. "Fan of history?"

"Fan of _your_ history," she replied sweetly. It took effort not to laugh at his shock, but it was worth it. He wasn't used to the candor from her, wasn't used to being seen for himself, separate from Captain America and his history as a Howling Commando, then as the Winter Soldier. He might want to feel alive again, but he didn't know how to go about doing it.

If he would let her, she had ideas to share on that.

***

Bucky's rooms in the villa were fairly plain and utilitarian. A few photos of the group, paintings done by local artists that Steve probably picked up for him, and a few decorations that had sharp enough edges that they could no doubt be lethal. Natasha clearly approved of it, by what Bucky could see if her expression as she walked in. what was she even doing here? They sparred, talked about history, and had fallen into a pattern of daily lunches over the past two weeks. Dinners were a bit of a catch-as-catch-can, as Wanda had finals, Amadeus was holed up in his lab for hours on end building something he vaguely described as "hella awesome!" and Sam was spending time with the Barton family. She hadn't come into his room before, and he felt anxiety pool in his gut. This couldn't possibly end well. Something bad had to be happening. Something bad _did_ happen.

"Is Steve okay?" he blurted, not able to handle his own panic.

"I would think so," she said easily, shrugging. "Haven't heard anything, and they're due back in another two weeks."

About a month gone, and Bucky didn't know what to do with himself. Was that pathetic?

"So what're you doing here?" he asked, confused. "Dinner was hours ago." He knew that for a fact because he had been staring at the clock the entire time.

She walked in, more obviously looking around this time. "I like it. Feels very you."

"Ain't nothing in here is mine. Not even the clothes."

"They're yours now. King T'Challa made that very clear."

"Don't make it true," he countered. He watched as she came closer, an easy sway in her hips, open body language. Not a threat, his gut said, but something was wrong. Something was off, and he couldn't tell what it was. He wanted to tense up, wanted to find a blade and hold her at bay. But that couldn't be a good instinct, so he fought it as she came to stand in front of him, expression looking so damn innocent.

Natasha smiled at him gently, and reached up to touch the edge of his bottom lip. Bucky went very still, breath hitching in his chest. What was she doing? Was she insane?

"Clint says that I like broken things because I'm broken myself," she murmured, a wry twist to her lips and the hint of humor in her eyes. "I know that's not it exactly. It's that I see the humanity beneath the monstrous façade. I see what could be, and I want to be part of that, I want the side that no one else sees. Like a secret only I have. Maybe that's the broken part, I don't know. But I don't see you as broken, Bucky."

"So I'm supposed to be a dirty little secret?" Something in his chest twisted, a sharp pain he didn't have a name for.

Her expression was almost pitying, but not quite. "You're not dirty, you're not little, and you're not a secret. I mean..." She paused, head tilted slightly as she tried to consider the words to explain it. "Others don't see all of you. They see someone to be afraid of. Or for. They see someone they have to help or hide or run from. But I see a man that's lived through so much, that has a darkness that he's pushed through."

"No, I haven't," Bucky replied, shaking his head and pushing her hand away.

She caught his hand in hers. Not a tight grip, one he could easily break free from, but one that was firm and held him in place. He found himself responding to it, holding himself very still, caught in her gaze. "You broke your programming," she said, each syllable deliberate. "They tried to erase you, yet there was enough humanity left that they couldn't take away from you. I know what that's like, and that's what I see. That's the part that others don't."

"And what do you want to do about it?"

She licked her lips, seeming almost uncertain. "You need something to keep from losing yourself, until you're sure that you won't hurt someone else. I'm right about that much." He didn't want to admit it, but yes. Her head tilted slightly, lips curling softly into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Your anchor has been pain, hasn't it?" she asked, fingers brushing across his palm. Almost unerringly over the places where rose thorns had pierced him.

"It's real."

"There are other things to feel that are real," she murmured, fingers still lightly brushing over his skin. "I think that you've had enough pain, Bucky. You can anchor yourself into the moment with sensation other than pain. This would be different."

His throat felt tight and hot, a fire in his chest. Fear choked him, and he stared at her blankly, not sure if she knew what she was saying. Of course he knew that any sensation could anchor him into the present and knock him out of his flashbacks. But he didn't deserve anything else. He had still done those awful things as the Winter Soldier, and he had to pay for them.

Her other hand came up slowly, telegraphing her intent clearly. The backs of her fingers brushed against the stubble on his jaw, then she turned them so that her nails rasped against it. "They didn't treat you like a man, only a machine. A weapon. A tool."

"Yeah," he agreed, not knowing where she was going with this.

"You need to be a man again."

Oh, God. What was she suggesting—?

The shock must have shown on his face, because her expression was stripped bare, vulnerable and open in a way he had never seen it. "There are ways to reclaim your humanity. If you want to. And... I want to help you. I want to be with you for this journey."

"Why?" he rasped, feeling stripped to the bone in a way that his memories never made him feel.

"I see you," she whispered. "And I see myself in you. And... I like what I see. I want..." She licked her lips. "Maybe the Red Room did break me. Maybe I can't take simple things, can't appreciate things like a farm house. Sometimes I want it, but most of the time I can't seem to make it work out in my head. I should want that kind of thing, shouldn't I? But they wanted to make me into a monster, into something less than human. A weapon. Point me in the right direction and watch me fire."

"Natasha," he began, not sure where she was going with this.

Her eyes had a suspicious shine to them. "I don't know what I feel, if it's normal, if it's what everyone else does. I tried talking to Laura about this kind of thing once, and she didn't understand what I was trying to say. But I think you do."

"It's a connection," Bucky guessed.

"Yes. And I want this. With you. If you want it, too."

"Is this love, Natasha?" he asked quietly.

Now her smile was inherently sad, and he cradled her cheek with his flesh hand. "Love is for children," she said quietly. "They had us think in terms of debts and ledgers and _duty."_ The word was spat out with bitterness. "I think I could."

"But you don't know."

"What is it? A longing for something? Wishing for the best for someone else? Feeling a connection that's real? If that's what it is, then yes, I can love."

Bucky swallowed and tried to smile. "Madame B would say you've failed your training, then."

Her laughter was bitter. "Have I, really?"

"You have a family, Natasha. And you keep trying to make connections, to feel something, to be someone real. Yes, you've failed spectactularly."

She reached up and put her arms around his neck. "Do you want that, Bucky? Connections and feelings, being someone? Or would you rather hide behind the awful memories they gave you?"

"I could hurt you," he deflected. "You're an idiot if you think you can control me."

She ran her nails lightly across his scalp, a soothing and pleasant sensation that left him gasping with surprise. "I'd never ask for more control than you're willing to give me. It would be about trust. That you trust me to take care of you and meet your needs, and I trust you to tell me when I cross lines that shouldn't be crossed. I trust you not to hurt me. I trust you not to leave when it gets to be difficult."

That bitter tone again, a story she might not be willing to tell. But she was laid bare in front of him, a Widow without her masks on, and maybe she would.

He didn't need it, though. He ran his hands down her back, feeling the bumps of her spine through the thin material of her shirt. He could break her, could curl into her flesh and rip her apart; he'd done it before, under the watchful eye of sadistic handlers.

"So this is love, then?" he asked carefully, feeling the syllables as strange things in his mouth. "Mutual trust? Caring for needs?"

"Yes," she said just as carefully.

"I..." He licked his lips and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Can I try that?" He wanted to, so badly, and the thought of destroying the hint of goodness in his life was _terrifying._

"Kneel," she murmured, pressing down on his shoulders with her forearms. Without knowing why he responded to her so completely, he sank gracefully to his knees and looked up at her, his hands sliding down to her hips.

"Our memories can be suspect," she said quietly, reaching out to tousle his hair. "But we can make new ones. Ones we're sure of." Her smile grew into a challenging one. "Think you can handle it? Think you can take whatever I dish out?"

Bucky nodded, not trusting his voice. He looked at her, eyes wide. She was so self assured, so confident, and he couldn't deny that he desired that. He desired _her._ There was more to love than just mutual trust and care, he was sure of it. Fondness and need and wanting, a breathless and heady rush of emotion perhaps. At least, he remembered the ghost of that kind of emotion, once upon a time when he had still been Bucky Barnes and not the Winter Soldier. He couldn't be that man anymore, and he refused to be a soulless monster.

This seemed to be as good a road to humanity as any.

Natasha kept eye contact with him, and simply carded her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp intermittently. Bucky stayed still, so very still, barely even breathing. Her breathing was just as shallow, the pulse in her throat jumping. Was she getting off on this? His own pulse had quickened, and he was dimly surprised to feel desire pool low in his belly. Not quite enough to get his cock hardening, but it was contact and gentle and _good_ and oh shit, he had never thought he could get something like this again.

When he thought he was going to growl with hunger at this kind of simple touch, she dropped to her knees as well, holding his head in her two hands. She kissed him, hungry and full of teeth and mashed lips. Bucky didn't think to catch her or reach out to touch her, but leaned into the kiss and returned it with equal fervor.

Her gaze was triumphant when she pulled back, lips kiss swollen and nearly bruised. "You didn't even reach out to touch me."

"Y-You didn't say I should," Bucky stammered, feeling stupid. "Could I?"

"If I tell you to." Oh, that did something to him, a thrill of excitement at the thought that he couldn't quite name. He leaned into the touch when she brought her fingernails to his stubbled cheek, scraping a path down his throat. "I will give the commands, and you will obey. Is that what you want?"

He shouldn't. He _shouldn't_ want it, not after Hydra taking his will away for damn long, but something in him ached for it. Natasha wouldn't abuse that trust, he was sure of it. Not after her care with him now, not after telling him that this would be an exchange of trust and care and connection. Maybe that was how she saw love, maybe that was all she was capable of voicing after what the Red Room had done to her. But he could see it in her eyes, the shining love she couldn't name, the desperate need and the ache in her that mirrored his.

"Yes," he said finally, voice as raw as if he had been screaming. "Yes, I want this. I want _you._ I need you."

Natasha's gaze was achingly tender as she leaned in and kissed his lips gently. "I need you, too," she said, voice soft as a caress.

While the Winter Soldier in him wanted to shout at her for being so stupid and vulnerable and _weak,_ the larger part of him was thrilled that she could trust him with this side of her. It was huge, and he understood that. This was her trust. This was her giving him a weapon that he could use against her if he wanted to. She was baring her throat, showing him the tender underbelly that he could rip apart with his teeth.

Instead, he reached out for her, touch gentle as he gathered her into his arms and pressed her body flush against his.

If this was nothing more than a dream, he had no intention of ever waking up.

***

It was quiet in the villa with the others all away. Natasha chose to let this happen in James' room for the first time—and wasn't that rather presumptuous of her to think of this as a _first_ time before it even happened—so that he could be comfortable. And maybe because it would settle her own nerves, too. It wasn't in her space, so she could compartmentalize it. This was something they did _there,_ not _here,_ and if she was too absorbed in this kind of play, if it felt like her heart might actually be involved...

She had feelings, but Natasha wasn't comfortable with them. They were strings that could be tied around her, choke her, keep her bound. But that was a function of her Black Widow training and years of spycraft. She had never been trapped by her friendship with Clint or Laura, had never felt as though the Barton children demanded more of her than she could give.

This should be the same. She _hoped_ it would be the same.

No blindfolds, because he would be new at this and she hadn't earned enough trust yet. No bindings, because that would likely feel too much like Hydra's doing.

Instead, Natasha opted for a simple ball chain, the kind used to hang dog tags. He stared at the loop of chain when she entered his room and locked the door, the length wrapped around her hands. "This is so you know it's real. That you chose this. I'm not making you, no one's making you. Hydra isn't here. There are no trigger words making you do this."

The stunned understanding in his eyes took her breath away. Of course she knew he hadn't been treated as a person, but it still hurt to see the proof of it.

Bucky rolled the thin chain between his fingers, looking at it when too overwhelmed by looking at her. "I could break this without any effort."

"I know."

"This isn't to hold me."

She let the chain slide off of her hands the rest of the way. "No. It's to remind you." When he looked up sharply, she smiled at him, a tender curve of lip. "It's real. This isn't a dream, it isn't something they're putting into your head to keep you compliant."

"Did they do that to you?"

"I think they did," Natasha murmured, not trying to sugar coat her response. "I can't be sure, but I think they did."

He pondered that for a moment, feeling the ball chain with his flesh and blood fingers, then nodded sharply. He put the ends together in the connector piece and then slipped it over his head as he looked up at her. "You won't hurt me," he declared, voice even and confident in this.

Not _you can't,_ because she could certainly try, but _you won't._ A sign of his own trust in her, in the connection between them.

Natasha's heart swelled for a moment, lips curling into a genuine smile. "Not unless you want me to, but I don't think that you'd enjoy that. Rough play, maybe, but not pain."

His eyes darkened and his lips parted. She watched his tongue dart out, slow and sensual, and the pulse at his throat leapt. "Yeah. I like it rough."

Grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, she sharply pulled his head back. "If you wear that, you belong to me. You do as I say. You trust that I will take care of you, and I trust that you will tell me if we cross lines we shouldn't. You'll tell me to slow it down if we have to." She ran her nails lightly along his throat, watching him swallow. "We can do this, and it can be so good, I know it will."

The want in him was almost a palpable thing, and her pulse quickened. "Yeah," he agreed, voice raspy with desire. "I want..."

"Tell me," she urged when his voice trailed off.

"To feel something. Something real. Not something I imagined."

She couldn't help but give a short burst of laughter. "Well, that all depends on what you imagine. I can be very creative."

He swallowed, licked his lips, and looked at her with such longing that it took his breath away. "I want you to be. Please."

"You beg so pretty," Natasha murmured, letting go of his hair to take his face in her hands. "How can I possibly say no?"

"Please don't," Bucky said, panic evident in his voice. "Please, please don't—"

Natasha pressed her fingers against his lips. "Sh... Get on the bed, Bucky."

He shuddered, eyes closing. "I don't— The name—" He looked at her helplessly when he opened his eyes, moving toward the bed. "It doesn't fit. Doesn't feel right."

"James," she murmured, trying that out.

"No one's called me that in a long time. Not since my Ma," he said, pausing with one knee on the bed, a thoughtful look on his face. "I..." He swallowed and took an unsteady breath. "I think I like it when you say that."

She smiled at him, soft and gentle, easing forward. "James."

His eyes slid shut and he flopped onto his back on the bed. "Yeah, I like how you say my name."

"Oh? How do I say it?"

"Like I'm safe with you. Like you can actually care about me."

"Because I do," she said, climbing up on top of him, straddling his waist. She ran her hands over his clothed chest, feeling his muscles loosen beneath her touch. "Is it hard to believe?"

"Sometimes."

"Our past is like that, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he admitted with a sigh.

"So here, there is no past. You put that chain on, and you're James. All we have is now, and what you feel."

He accepted that with a nod. "And you? Who are you when I put it on?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask "Who do you want me to be?" but that wouldn't be fair. This was about honesty and need, and he deserved the truth.

"Natalia. The girl I used to be before."

His gaze was soft and reverent, and his smile was a brilliant one. He made a half hearted attempt to reach up and touch her, but she caught his wrist in her hand. It was odd to feel the shift of the metal plates and know that he wasn't out to get her. This was so very different from their last few encounters before coming to Wakanda.

"You touch me when I say you can. Right now, I want your arms up over your head. You hold onto the frame and you don't let go."

"Yes, Natalia."

Heat curled low in her belly at the sound of his gravelly voice saying her name. Oh yes, it felt right. James and Natalia, linked together, understanding their issues and emotions so completely and in ways that others never would.

She started slow, just touching and caressing him through his clothes as if time held no meaning at all. He was pliant and relaxed beneath her, watching her every microexpression. She traced the lines of his limbs, massaging deep into the muscle. "I want you naked under me," she declared, soothing her fingers into his chest.

"I have to hold onto the frame," he replied. The faint trace of confusion in his tone told her that he wasn't trying to sass her. Too bad; it might have been to see that. Maybe it would happen when he was more comfortable with her, when he believed in himself more.

Look at that, planning a future with him in it. Natasha was a bit more sentimental than she gave herself credit for.

"I'm going to strip you," she said, voice firm. He likely wouldn't have argued that, but she wanted to telegraph what she was doing. She didn't know what his triggers were, what might send him over the edge.

But his eyes were full of yearning. "Please," he whimpered.

Taking her time, Natasha undid the snaps and fastenings on his clothing, drawing them off of him. Each motion was languorous, a caress against his skin. He was fully erect before she had his lower half bared, and she wanted to take him into her mouth and suck until he shattered. Holding back, she undid the buttons on his shirt and pushed the two halves aside, leaving his chest bare to her view. He wasn't overly self conscious about the scars or the prosthetic arm, and relaxed even further at her touch.

Bending over him, she brought her lips to his scars. Bucky sucked in a shaky breath, and she could hear the creak in the wooden slats of his headboard. Looking up, Natasha tilted her head in silent query.

"S'okay. Didn't expect that."

"You're beautiful," she murmured, lips hovering over the tangled mass of scar tissue near his shoulder. She looked up at him through her lashes, saw him swallow with a pained expression on his face. "All of you. Everything I see, everything I can't see."

"You believe that, don't you?"

"Absolutely, I do."

He didn't say anything else as she reverently touched his skin directly now, lips and tongue and teeth and fingers. His breath hitched when her lips grazed his nipples, when she sucked hard on one of them and pinched the other. The moan he let out when she dragged her body over his was utterly delicious, so she shifted back the other way just to hear it again.

Bucky held onto the headboard tightly as she moved over him, stroking his limbs. If not kissing, licking, or nipping at his flesh, Natasha murmured endearments in various languages. He was so pretty, so strong, so wonderful. He took directions so well. So eager to please. So warm and pliant and welcoming to her touch. Just what she wanted.

His voice was hoarse when he cried out at the sensation of her lips on his cock. There was that threatening creak at the headboard; it was a wonder that it was holding up under the pressure that the metal hand could exert. Bucky's breathing was ragged and his hips twitched, but otherwise he was keeping himself so very still.

Not wanting him to come too soon, Natasha pulled away with a wet popping sound. "Good boy," she crooned, massaging his balls gently. "James, you're doing so well."

He growled something low and garbled in Russian, and she hid her smirk by ducking down to nip at his balls and thighs. "Oh, мой милый, whatever shall I do with you?" she teased.

"Fuck me hard?" he asked, voice breaking.

"Not yet," she replied, voice cool and even despite her fluttering heartbeat. The image of herself climbing on top of him and riding him into oblivion was too tempting, too delicious. "We haven't even gone on a date yet."

"I'll take you wherever you wanna go," he promised breathlessly. "I used to dance. Used to be good at it." He made a soft growling noise when she nipped at his thigh with her teeth, her hair grazing his cock. "Please, Natalia. _Please."_

Taking him back in her mouth, she sucked hard and cradled his balls in one hand, balancing her weight on her elbow. Her other hand stroked his chest, holding him down with the gentlest of pressures. She licked and sucked his length, hearing his head thrash on the pillow as he tried to keep his hips still. There was a low chant of "Oh God, oh God, oh God" building up as his cock jerked in her mouth, and she felt his balls tighten in her hand. That only made her smile against him and exert more pressure.

She swallowed him down when he came in spurts, a salty tang at the back of her throat. After a teasing swirl on his oversensitive head, Natasha pulled away and then sat on her haunches, a pleased smile on her face. Bucky was dazed, sprawled on the bed beneath her, and he shivered when she stroked his thigh and stomach.

"Doing good?" she asked softly, checking in that he was all right.

"Better'n good," he murmured, eyes falling shut. "Mmm. Wanna taste you now."

"Who said you can give the orders?" she chuckled, reaching up to pinch a nipple.

"Not an order. Request," he said, cracking an eye open. "If you want me to."

Natasha scooted closer to his head and traced the curve of his lips. "You have a very fuckable mouth," she mused, and watched him suck her fingertip inside his mouth. She hummed happily at the soft touch of his tongue, then the gentle scrape of his teeth.

Bucky gently pushed her finger out of his mouth with his tongue. "Is that a yes?"

"That's a hell yes," she told him, grinning at the delighted expression on his face.

She only kicked off her shoes, jeans and underwear. It probably looked odd to still have her shirt and socks on, but she straddled his face and braced herself with her hands on his chest. His hands still clutched his headboard, and there were distinct cracks in the slat clutched inside his metal fist. They would probably have to get a stronger bed.

His tongue lapped at her, gently at first, tracing the folds and shape of her. Each movement was slow and methodical, as if he was memorizing it, cataloguing her responses. "Harder," she demanded, his feather light licks nothing more than a tease.

He followed direction well, pressing harder and licking with gusto. Thrusting his tongue into her slit at intervals, he nipped and sucked at her folds until he got to the clit itself. He dove in at that point, licking hard and fast, making her gasp and mewl above him. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into his skin, and he groaned at the sensation. He pressed hard, and then pulled at her clit with his lips. _"Yes,"_ she hissed, scratching at his belly, and nearly howled in pleasure when he did it again.

God, his mouth was _perfect._

Tilting her hips down, she was pressed right up against his mouth. His tongue was right where she needed it to be, the perfect pressure swirling around her clit, stroking it, making her breath catch and her heart stutter. She tightened as the pleasure mounted, rocking against his face and nearly growling. "There," she panted. "That way, like that, like _that—"_

Pleasure flowed through her when the orgasm came, a heat flooding her body and melting her bones. Natasha sagged down a little, shifting her grasp to the bed so she didn't squish him too much. Her breath was erratic, and she hissed when he didn't slow down his licks. "Too much," she gasped, shimmying off of him and flopping down beside him.

Bucky chuckled, the bastard, and she swatted him lightly. "Good, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," she purred, scooting closer to his sprawled form. She pressed her cheek to his hip and lifted her hand to his stomach. It was the best she'd had in a long time. If ever, really, but telling him that might inflate his ego too much.

"So... encore sometime?" he asked hopefully.

"I think we fit," she snickered, reaching for the loop of ball chain around his neck. "And this is a good idea to keep you grounded."

"Almost forgot about that," he admitted. "Maybe I don't need it?"

"Maybe," she acknowledged. "But it's still a nice touch."

"Showing that you own me?" he asked. He nodded toward his arms. "Do I get to let go now?"

Natasha pretended to think it over. "If you must."

He swatted her ass when he let go of the bed. "Gonna have to get a stronger bed," he grumbled, but the smile on his face indicated he wasn't actually irritated by that.

She had been thinking the same thing. They absolutely did fit, and the realization was heady.

"How do you feel about knives?" she asked as she abruptly sat up. She watched his face closely as she ran her nails down his chest. She managed not to laugh at his strangled gasp when she ran her nail over his nipple.

"I like 'em. Almost as good as guns."

Her grin was sharp and edged, full of teeth and delight. "How attached are you to your clothes?"

"Not very," he said, lips tilting into a wry smile as he understood. "Some of 'em, anyway. There's some that I really do like."

"Then next time, we can see how it goes with knives."

Bucky _lit up,_ and she felt a similar kind of joy run through her. Natasha had finally found someone that matched her, challenged her and supported her all at once. She hadn't dreamed that she could find this with him. Or at all, really.

The future was infinitely brighter already.

The End


End file.
